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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747186">Shared Silence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre'>NoelleAngelFyre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Boy (2016 Bell)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Classical Music, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Slow Dancing, Tenderness, Valentine's Day Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:42:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They dance at midnight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shared Silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hallway is scorched wood and firelight. In the sitting room, the needle drops and Tchaikovsky fills the air: the <em>Swan Lake</em> suite.</p>
<p>The musical choice, while classic, doesn’t lend itself to ballroom dancing; still, Brahms stands before her with hand extended in a gentleman’s invitation.  In a clean (albeit well-worn) sweater and trousers, he looks closer to a dancer than herself in cotton pants and a tank-top with skin flushed and slightly damp from her shower – necessary after her morning escapade in the garden – and hair hanging heavy and wet down her back.</p>
<p>She looks an uncivilized mess, in the mirror, but she sees herself in his eyes and a goddess stares back. </p>
<p>His steps are smooth and practiced: a lifetime of lessons condensed to eight years. Hers are awkward and fumbling: a childhood of dancing to music only Greta could hear and a partner only she could see.  Together they sway body to body, perilously close.  Greta thinks of the first time they danced: two strangers who have known one another for a thousand lifetimes.</p>
<p>His fingers, long and thin, flutter across random features of her face, neck, shoulders…she catches both hands in hers, breaking the dancer’s traditional stance, before his touch can ghost the soft curves of breast.  Humor shimmers in her gaze with a droplet of reprimand: the sitting room is off limits to their love-making.  Such affairs are meant to be carried out in the sanctity of the bedroom, where he can make her body cry and sing and she strips him of restraint; in the throes of making love, they are as bare and vulnerable to each other as if each were naked bone and muscle.</p>
<p>In here, in the sitting room, with a ballet leading a ballroom dance, they are quiet caresses and shared silence.  The hearth casts an intimate shadow play across the carpet and walls.  Brahms’ fingers are lost within her dark hair; hers are curled loose against his chest, not terribly far from the place her cheek currently rests.  In heels, she barely reaches his shoulder; in her bare feet, she finds a place to rest right at the caged rhythm of heartbeat.</p>
<p>Eventually, the needle stops and the music ends.  Their dance does not.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This might be the most innocent piece I've written for these two.  :)  A little late to officially commemorate the day of love, but close enough.  Happy Valentine's Weekend!!</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I own nothing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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